


Kingsman of Interest

by Draycevixen



Series: Collection of POI fic by Draycevixen [47]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015), Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Crossovering Exchange, Jealousy, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-17 15:19:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4671512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draycevixen/pseuds/Draycevixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Crossovering 2015 Challenge. </p><p>My recipient has only seen the first two seasons of Person of Interest, so the events of Kingsman: The Secret Service, now overlap with the time line of early season two. </p><p>"We have a new number, a Harry Fotheringill."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Morbane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbane/gifts).



When he walked into the library, the only enthusiastic greeting he received was from Bear despite having gone two blocks out of his way to buy Sencha green tea. Finch was standing at the board, posting a new picture. 

"There you are, Mr. Reese. We have a new number. Harry Fotheringill, Englishman and Green Card holder, an antiques dealer from San Francisco currently staying at The Plaza. I haven't been able to uncover any further information about him."

John put the bag of croissants down on the desk but brought their drinks over to Finch, getting his first real look at the photograph. 

"It's because his name's Hart, not Fotheringill. Code name Galahad. He's a Kingsman."

"What's that?" Finch turned to look at him.

"They're like the English CIA but with better manners."

"Better manners?" Finch looked confused, not a common expression on his face. 

"They'd only stab you with the correct fork." John sipped his coffee. "I don't know why the Machine would give you his number, it must be up all the time."

"If you're right as to Mr. Hart's identity—"

"I am." Harry Hart was one of the more memorable people he'd met in the intelligence world. "We worked together in South America a few years ago when our masters' interests overlapped."

Finch absorbed this information, probably comparing it to what he already knew of John's CIA records. It could be a problem, working with someone who knew everything about you but John was reasonably sure this wasn't in the records, even if John's 'sexual flexibility' was. The CIA did like its euphemisms. 

"Then this must be something out of the ordinary or the Machine wouldn't have given us Mr. Hart's number." Finch walked back over to his desk and sat down. "Perhaps he's retired? His Green Card records show him to be fifty-five."

"I didn't know Hart was that old."

Finch had been reaching for the croissant bag but he stopped, reaching for his tea instead. "How well do you know Mr. Hart?"

Biblically didn't seem like the right answer. "He beat me to the target but I helped him with the mop up and we ended up getting drunk together in a Uruguayan bar."

"So you're friends?"

He'd taken a swing at Hart, who'd punched him back then John had kissed him. When he'd woken up the next morning with a hangover, bruises and that all too rare fucked out feeling, he'd been alone. "Acquaintances." 

"It's a pity you didn't get to know him better."

John almost choked on his coffee. 

Finch looked at him oddly. "If you were friends, you could just warn him about some intel you'd run across."

He thought about it. They hadn't parted on bad terms, they hadn't parted at all. Hart had just left without saying goodbye. "It's worth a try, Finch. As long as I'm careful to approach him in a public space it might work."

 

Two hours later, he watched Hart walk out of The Plaza and pause briefly to chat with the doorman. To a casual observer, it would have looked like Hart was just asking for directions but he knew he was using it as cover to check out his surroundings because John would have done the same thing. 

Hart eventually walked off down the street and he followed him but not at a discreet distance. The last thing he wanted to do was take the Kingsman by surprise. 

He tapped his earpiece. "Looks like we're going to the zoo, Finch."

"Say hello to the sea lions for me."

But Hart didn't stop at the zoo, instead ambling deeper into Central Park. He gradually gained on Hart, finally falling into step with him. 

"Good morning, John." Hart kept walking.

"Harry."

"Is this business or pleasure?" 

Most people wouldn't have noticed that Hart had shifted slightly in a way that would make it much easier to draw his gun but then John wasn't most people. 

"Neither." He stopped by a park bench. "Free information." 

"Do you mind if we keep walking?" Hart turned to face him. "I've spent rather too much time lately cooped up indoors." 

He could see the scars radiating out across Hart's forehead and up into his hairline. He'd been damn lucky not to be cooped up permanently in a hole in the ground. 

"No, I don't mind." 

They kept walking in silence for a while, meandering towards the Reservoir. 

"You said you had some information for me, John."

"Someone is planning on killing you, I'm not sure who."

Out of the corner of this eye, he saw Hart's mouth twitch in amusement.

"Business as usual, then." 

"Not the usual hazards of the game, Harry. You've been targeted."

They stepped aside to let a woman with a toddler in a stroller and a Labrador on a leash move past them.

"I understood you weren't in the game anymore, John."

"I'm not, but I still hear things."

"In that case, thank you for the warning." Hart turned towards him again. "There's an exhibition on at the Met that I'm rather keen on seeing, if you're interested in accompanying me."

Hart's lack of questions told John he didn't want his help and professional courtesy meant he wouldn't force it on him. 

"The Met's more my partner's speed, but I'll walk with you."

When they reached the museum, Hart turned to shake his hand, his other hand briefly covering the top of John's hand. 

"Goodbye, John. I'm awfully glad that the rumours of your death have been so greatly exaggerated."

John tensed. Perhaps he should have given this approach more thought. 

"Not that anyone will hear any differently from me, you have my word. Retirement is looking better to me by the day and your people in particular were never good with the gold watch." 

Hart's word was good enough for him. "Goodbye, Harry. Be careful."

Hart was turning to leave when a bullet cut through the shoulder seam of his suit, striking the sidewalk behind them. As Hart instinctively reached for his gun, John grabbed his arm, pulling him forward towards the Met. Hart immediately realized what he had in mind and started running. They made it safely into a cab dropping off some passengers at the museum without another bullet fired. 

Hart asked the driver to take them back to The Plaza. 

"Are you alright, Mr. Reese?" Finch's voice sounded breathless, like he'd been the one running for his life. 

"We both are. Judging by the angle, the bullet came from high up. We're headed back to Fotheringill's room at The Plaza."

"I'll hack into the security feeds and send you anything I find."

 

Back at The Plaza, Hart checked his room's door. The hair he'd left jammed into the doorframe was intact but they still worked together to efficiently clear the room, Hart even sweeping it for listening devices. 

"Would you care for something to eat, John?"

He realized he would. They were halfway through their room service lunch when Finch spoke. 

"Mr. Reese? I've sent you footage of a man with a rifle on a nearby roof. Do all spies think they're Batman?"

"Just the good ones."

"Pardon?" Hart looked quizzically at him across the table. 

John pointed at his ear. "Just my partner, letting me know he's sending me footage of the shooter."

He opened the file on his phone as Hart moved around the table to look over his shoulder. It was of a handsome young man, probably mid-twenties, light colored hair, glasses, very well-dressed, standing on a roof shouldering a high power scoped rifle. 

"Do you recognize him?"

When Hart didn't respond immediately, he turned to look at him. The color had drained from Hart's face.

"Harry?"

"Yes, I do." He watched as Hart visibly shook off whatever had thrown him. "But if there's only one thing I'm sure of right now it's that Gareth did not attempt to kill me."

"One of yours?"

"The best of them." Hart pulled his glasses out of his inside breast pocket and walked towards the bathroom. "If you will excuse me, John, I need to have a few words in private with an old friend."

After the bathroom door closed, he spoke to Finch. "Batman is not our shooter."

"So I heard. I'll keep searching the feeds." 

"I'll stay with Hart for now."

 

On his return from the bathroom, Hart was pensive, only admitting that he'd confirmed Gareth had not been ordered to kill him. 

Hart hadn't objected when John had told him he planned to stay with him until they heard something more from his partner. They'd watched part of a Yankees game together, John distracting Hart with explanations of the rules of the game and then they'd gone to eat dinner downstairs on Hart's insistence that no one was likely to try anything in The Plaza's restaurant. 

When they still hadn't heard back by midnight either from Hart's 'old friend' or Finch, he'd prepared to bunk down on the too short sofa. Then Hart had offered to share the king-sized bed, Hart's expression making it clear he was offering nothing but a comfortable place to lie down and he'd seen no good reason to refuse. At least he hadn't, until Finch had abruptly signed off and by then it was too late to say anything. He'd gotten too used to Finch in his ear. 

 

The next morning, while Hart was showering, he was reading the newspaper and drinking coffee dressed only in his boxers when there was a knock at the door. He would have checked the peephole but only a fool stood exactly where an enemy might expect them to be standing. Instead, he stood to the side of the door, his gun down by his far side as he opened it a few inches. The man Hart had called Gareth was standing outside. 

Gareth looked him up and down. "Who are you?" 

"A friend of Harry's." He let the door swing open and Gareth walked in, John closing the door behind him. When Gareth saw the gun in John's hand he started reaching for his own. 

"Stand down, _Gareth_." Hart was in the bathroom doorway, wearing one of the hotel's bathrobes, scrubbing at his wet hair with a towel. 

Gareth looked from Hart back to John and then across at the rumpled bed, tension etched in every line of his body. 

"Merlin—" Hart shook his head at Gareth. "I was told you was looking for me, Harry."

"Perhaps we better dress first, John." Hart picked out some clothes before retreating back to the bathroom.

John wasn't so bashful, picking his clothes up from where they'd been draped over the back of a chair and pulling them on before slipping his earpiece back in, turning it on and sitting on the couch to put his shoes on. All the while, he could feel Gareth's eyes boring into the top of his head. 

When Hart emerged from the bathroom, as immaculately groomed as usual, he sat beside John on the couch.

Gareth didn't sit, he just shoved his hands into his pants pockets before obviously thinking better of it and removing them, smoothing down his suit jacket. "So how long've you two known each other?"

"We've known each other for years." There was a little too much stress on the way Hart said 'known' as he lightly touched John's thigh before slowly withdrawing his hand. 

So that was how Hart wanted to play it. It made no difference to him so he leaned back further, draping an arm along the back of the couch behind Hart. If looks could kill he'd have already been dead under Gareth's hard gaze.

"What's this all about?" Hart sounded tired. 

"Arse-ur."

"Really, where are your manners, Gareth?"

John could hear Finch snort. "You weren't joking about the Kingsmen, Mr. Reese."

"Bugger manners, the tosser wants you dead, Harry." Gareth sprawled into the armchair, arms crossed. It took talent to look that much like a petulant teen while wearing a custom tailored suit. 

"I'm sure you're mistaken. Arthur is a man of principle—"

"Like fuck he is."

"—who only wants what's best for Kingsman."

"He. Wants. You. Dead. Harry." Gareth didn't seem to know it was rude to point. 

Hart leaned forward. "Why on earth would he want any such thing?"

"We had a vote and he's out."

"Nonsense, I would have been informed of any such matter."

"No point, you weren't allowed to vote."

"But that would only be true if— Oh no, Gareth, you didn't."

"We did." Suddenly Gareth was grinning from ear to ear and the transformation to his face was remarkable. "You're the new Arthur, by a landslide."

"You should have asked me first."

"We'd have had to bleeding find you to do that."

Gareth glared at Hart who glared right back. 

John had long since tired of spy politics. "This Arthur is the one shooting at Harry?"

Gareth turned to look at John. "Hardly. A toffee-nosed bastard like him would never get his hands dirty." He looked back at Hart. "Me and Merlin think its Arthur's candidate for Gawain. Either the poor sod doesn't know it's not a legit assignment or he's made a deal for the seat."

"Do you know where to find this would-be Gawain?"

"Merlin has a few ideas."

Hart stood up. "Then I suggest we have a few words with him."

 

A few words turned into a firefight across the rooftops necessitating Gareth making the most spectacular leap between two buildings that John had ever seen. They'd been following Gareth up the fire escape stairs and the dread on Hart's face as Gareth had swung for a moment from only one hand before hauling himself up and over the other building's fire escape railing confirmed his suspicions about Hart's feelings for Gareth.

The would-be Gawain had ended up crushed under a freight elevator, Hart luckily rolling clear just in time. 

"Fucking hell, Harry, I thought you'd died on me again." Gareth offered a hand to help Hart to his feet, his other hand lingering just a little too long on Hart's elbow, gripping it like he was fighting the urge to pull Hart in closer. In the end, it was Hart who stepped away. 

So Hart wasn't alone in it at least, unlikely as it seemed. If John wasn't careful, it might even give him cause to hope. 

"Would you be kind enough to let our friends know what's transpired here, Gareth?"

"Course, Harry." Gareth reluctantly walked away. 

John was amused by their precautions. Both Hart and Gareth had put on identical glasses at the beginning of their hunt for Gawain and there was no way their 'friends' didn't already know what had happened. Still, if that's how Hart wanted to play it that was his business. 

"Thank you, John." Hart shook his hand. "I hope you don't think it terribly gauche of me if I admit I hope our paths never cross again."

John understood better than Hart would ever know. 

 

Bear greeted him as he walked into the library carrying Indian takeout. Finch even deigned to look up from his computer. 

"I wasn't expecting you, Mr. Reese. And you brought dinner."

"I didn't get a chance to eat, thought you probably hadn't either."

"Thank you."

John put the bags on the edge of the desk and went to fetch some bottles of water from the back room. When he came back, Finch was setting out the food. 

They ate in companionable silence at least until John had dulled his hunger enough to notice Finch was stealing sideways looks at him. 

"What's up, Finch?"

"Nothing." 

He finished eating, confident that Finch would eventually tell him what was bothering him.

"I'm sorry." Finch looked surprised, like he really hadn't meant to say anything. 

"About what?"

Finch peered into the bottom of his takeout box, prodding the Rogan Josh with his fork like it had offended him personally. "It's really extraordinary the way they use the Knights of the Round Table as their code names."

" _Finch._ " He thought he knew what Finch was going to say but he wasn't going to make it easy for him. 

"...That you didn't get to spend more time with your old friend."

"We were only acquaintances at best, Finch."

Finch's eyebrow arched in disbelief.

"We had drunken sex in Uruguay once to blow off steam, that's it." After killing five men and blowing up an arms dealer's compound which made it a lot less frat boyish than he'd just made it sound. "Last night we just shared the same bed. Two tall men and a very short couch is not good math."

"It's none of my business."

John wanted it to be. "We were both sober and, stupid as it seems, Hart's fixated on the boy." He pitched the remains of his dinner into the trash and turned back to the table where Finch was very carefully not looking at him. 

"There's no fool like an old fool." Finch was back to stabbing at his food. 

"Maybe but strange as it is Gareth wants him right back." 

"Nonetheless, we're agreed that the age difference makes it ridiculous." Finch nodded slightly, like he was confirming something for himself that he hadn't said out loud.

That's when it clicked, why Finch seemed to want him close while still working to keep him at a distance. He leaned heavily on the arms of Harold's chair, trapping him there before he could begin to stand. 

"We're agreed about the ridiculousness of the _Kingsmen's_ age difference, Harold."

Harold stared up at him before looking away. "I'm older than Mr. Hart—"

"You are." John raised his hand to Harold's cheek, grateful when he didn't flinch away. "But I'm 45, not 25."

"And he's a lot less damaged than I am." Harold was wearing his implacable expression, the one that always made John want to kiss it right off him. 

"If you really believe that, Harold, you don't know much about spies." And then he yielded to his long held impulse, kissing Harold for the first time. 

It wasn't much of a kiss, more a brush of lips, Harold's dry, John's chapped and both redolent of garlic and onions but the look on Harold's face as John slowly drew back was priceless. 

They stared at each other, grinning like idiots before Harold reeled him back in by his shirt, slotting their mouths together, deepening it, his fingers caressing John's jaw line before slipping to his nape. 

He tried not to move his hands, to let Harold set the pace but John _wanted_ after so long of making himself not want anything and his hands moved of their own volition to settle high on Harold's thighs, thumbs caressing his inseams. 

Harold stiffened under his hands but not in the good way. 

"Harold?" He eased back, sinking down onto his haunches and moving his hands back to the armrests. "If you don't want this—"

"Of course I want this."

That was something at least. He moved his hand back to rest lightly on Harold's good leg and Harold entwined their fingers. 

"My back was killing me earlier so I took some stronger medication than I normally do." Harold looked down at their hands. "The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak."

This was never going to be easy. He stood up, not letting go of Harold's hand, instead easing him up onto his feet. "Come home with me."

"But, John, I was trying to explain—"

He shut Harold up by the simple expedient of kissing him. "To sleep with me, just to sleep, Harold." He kissed him again. "For now."

"Yes, John, I'd like that." Harold went to gather his things. 

It was never going to be easy because John had never been good with words, never felt his own happiness was important enough to learn. Yet somehow, Harold had changed all that. He still might never find the right words but he was going to spend what time remained, before their luck ran out, showing Harold how he felt about him.


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as John had left, Harry had used his glasses to convey to both Eggsy and Merlin his intentions to stay in New York for another week. They weren't happy about it and said as much but he'd been adamant. He'd then bid them adieu and cut the call before they could say anything more, pocketing his glasses.

 

He'd decided not to hurry back to The Plaza, instead stopping to have dinner at a small Italian restaurant he'd last eaten in five years before. It was every bit as good as he remembered. Given its intimate candlelit atmosphere, he wasn't surprised that most of the other tables were occupied by couples. As he lingered over his after dinner coffee, yet another couple was shown to their table, both men in their mid-thirties, one bending down quickly to steal a kiss from the one already seated. 

 

Before he'd left for Kentucky, when Eggsy had told him about failing the final test, he'd been frustrated and angry and Eggsy had frantically apologized before backing him up against the study wall and kissing him until he thought his knees might give way. He hadn't been that turned on in years but he'd still known his duty so he'd pushed Eggsy aside and, in a complete daze, left the house to get into the waiting cab. On the plane ride to America, common sense had returned. Eggsy had had no objections during training to what he'd thought was a honey trap assignment and in the same vein had been using his looks and sexual prowess to mollify him. He'd felt stupid for falling for it, even for a few minutes, and had spent the rest of the flight concentrating on the work ahead. 

 

After finishing his meal, he'd decided on impulse to see a late screening of 'The Ipcress File' at a nearby cinema. He'd considered staying on, to see 'Funeral in Berlin' but it was already one in the morning, it had been a long day and surely even Eggsy would have given up by then. 

He was relieved to see the strand of hair still trapped in his hotel room door but when he opened it, Eggsy was sitting in the armchair waiting for him, jacket off, tie loosened and a glass of whisky in his hand. 

"Good evening, Eggsy."

Eggsy looked pointedly at his watch. "Morning more like." Eggsy drank some more of his whisky. "Been off celebrating with your mate?" 

Only Eggsy could make 'celebrating' sound just like 'fucking.'

It might have been easier to go with Eggsy's version of events but he was simply too tired for any more games. 

"If you absolutely must know, I said goodbye to John before I even spoke to you and Merlin. I went to dinner by myself and then saw a late film at a nearby cinema. And now I'm tired and wish to go to sleep so if you'd just show yourself out, there's a good chap." 

He opened the closet door and slipped off his jacket, turning his back to Eggsy. He jerked back around as Eggsy slammed his glass down on the coffee table. 

"What I want to know, Harry, is why you swanned off to New York without a word to me."

What was he supposed to say? That he'd wanted more than Eggsy had been offering? No one had ever thought him pathetic and he wasn't going to appear so now, no matter how pathetic he was actually feeling. "Don't be ridiculous, Eggsy, I came here on an assignment."

"Like fuck you did."

"You doubt—"

"Merlin wouldn't have sent me here blind, just to keep an eye on you, if that was the truth."

He was confused. "But he sent you here because the two of you were suspicious about Arthur."

"Nah, I got here the same day you did. I was surprised you didn't spot me following you about but then I was trained by the best." Eggsy mock saluted him. "Merlin called me two days later with his suspicions about Arthur, after the vote was done remotely, under the usual protocol."

He removed his tie, opened the top button of his shirt and then poured himself a large glass of whisky before slumping down on the couch, taking a moment to savor the single malt in silence while he mentally scrambled for what to say next. 

"So why didn't you say anything to me, Harry?"

He twirled the glass of whisky slowly in his hand, admiring the play of light. 

 

When he'd eventually returned from Kentucky, with the bandaged beginnings of yet another impressive scar for his collection and trying to at least be grateful that he hadn't died or even lost an eye, he'd sought Eggsy out, intending to congratulate him on a job well done and on his confirmation as the new Gareth. 

He'd barely got a word out before Eggsy had pushed him back through the dressing room door and backed him up against the mirror, kissing him all the way. Eggsy had managed to work one hand up under Harry's shirt, a burning brand against his lower back, and been working on undoing his flies with the other when Merlin had hammered on the door to tell them there was a emergency meeting in two minutes. If it hadn't been for the sudden arrival of Merlin who knew what might have happened?

 

He knew what would have happened and even now wished it had, with no time to think it through, no time to recall how utterly inappropriate the mere idea of it was.

Bugger it all, he might be a spy but he had to stop lying to himself at least. If Eggsy had been offering everything, the way he wanted to give Eggsy everything, inappropriateness wouldn't have stopped him for a moment. 

"Harry? Are you listening to me?"

"Please forgive me, Eggsy, it's been rather a long day."

"Screw it." Eggsy put down his glass, crossed the space between them and dropped to his knees, resting his hands on Harry's thighs. "Look at me."

He just had time to think 'at least he isn't backing me into a wall' before Eggsy started leaning in. This time though, he stopped him with a firm hand to Eggsy's very firm chest, warm through his thin shirt. 

"I'm flattered, Eggsy, but I'm not interested."

"Bollocks. I can tell when someone wants me and you did." Eggsy pressed harder against Harry's hand. "So what's changed? Is it John?" Eggsy's hands clenched into the fabric of Harry's trousers. "Cos he may have a few years experience on me but I bet I know a few tricks he hasn't even dreamed of."

He had no doubt of it. "No, it's not John." He'd promised himself he'd never say anything about the matter to Eggsy. "It's Lancelot." So much for not ever saying anything. 

"What, Roxy?" Eggsy looked genuinely puzzled. 

"Your conquests may not mean that much to you but I feel both Lancelot and I deserve better." 

Eggsy started laughing so hard he folded in on himself, sprawling across Harry's lap in the process. Eggsy was warm, so very warm, and Harry's fingers were already moving to twine in Eggsy's hair before he managed to stop himself. 

Eggsy lifted his head just enough to stare up at him, his grin lighting up his face. "Christ, you saw Roxy and me taking pictures for Kay's operation, didn't you? She was wearing killer heels and that little strappy plunging backless number and nibbling on my chest?"

Light was beginning to dawn. There was no fool like an old fool and he was feeling every year of it. 

"You seriously thought I was trying to screw both of you? Either one of you would probably be enough to kill me, Roxy literally, if I was seeing her and fucking someone else. Not that I would of course, I'd be bloody lucky to have either one of you."

So Eggsy had been trying it on with both of them to see if one of them would bite? His anger must have shown on his face because Eggsy sat up, both hands defensively out in front of him. 

"That came out all wrong, Harry. What I meant to say was I'd be bloody lucky to have either one of you but you're the only one I want, honest."

"Better, Eggsy, much better." He pushed Eggsy backwards, dropping down from the couch and crawling over him to pin him against the carpet. 

So what if Eggsy was half his age and not yet showing a quarter of the mileage, they were good together with the very real possibility of being bloody spectacular. 

Eggsy beamed up at him like he was something special, seemingly unaware of what a miracle he was to Harry.

They were Kingsmen, odds were high against their even living long enough for the age difference to become insurmountable.

Eggsy tapped lightly on Harry's forehead. "You're thinking too much."

And if they should beat those odds and Eggsy were to grow tired of him— Bugger that, he was in love for the last time. 

"Show me your tricks, Eggsy." 

Fuck appropriate.


End file.
